


Just in case

by AngelofPerdition



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:24:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofPerdition/pseuds/AngelofPerdition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Preston asks, “Babe, are you okay?” his answer is predictable. He smiles, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and says “Just a little tired, cowboy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just in case

Sometimes, Oliver disappears for a day or two. It’s never long enough to conduct any serious business. No one knows what he gets up to, only that’s he’s uncharacteristically quiet when he returns. That mood never lasts long, so Preston never thought to worry. 

But now, Oliver is quiet, that same kind of quiet, yet he hasn’t left Preston’s side in weeks. This time, it doesn’t fade after a day. This time, Preston does worry.

Oliver isn’t the type to talk about his feelings, not when they’re negative, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying. When Preston asks, “Babe, are you okay?” his answer is predictable. He smiles, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and says “Just a little tired, cowboy.” 

It wouldn’t be unreasonable for that to be true. Oliver is, after all, the General of the Minutemen. Preston has never officially had that particular honor, but it had been tiring to lead even the four of them that had been left when Oliver found them. He wouldn’t want to try commanding the small army Oliver has turned them into. Knowing Oliver like he does, ‘tired’ is probably a gross understatement.

And yet. He can’t help but to be reminded of the trip to Concord, when Sturges asked him if he was okay. The ‘tired’ excuse had been quick on his tongue, and no less believable from him then than it was now from Oliver. If he’s splitting hairs, he hadn’t been lying. He  _ had  _ been tired, just not in the way he’d implied. He hadn’t been travel-tired, he hadn’t been tired from combat, he’d been exhausted from the effort of caring enough to keep the rest alive, if not himself. He doesn’t feel that way any longer, thanks to Oliver, but he remembers it. No one should feel that way. Least of all Oliver. 

It’s too easy to jump to conclusions. That might actually be the sole reason he doesn’t do it. When something is easy, it’s probably wiser to think it through instead of immediately rushing into things. So he waits. 

He’s not expecting it, per se, but it doesn’t come as a surprise when Oliver announces he’s going away for a little while. They’ve learned to accept that by now, so most of them just nod and go about their business. Preston usually does that as well, but this is the first time Oliver is taking off since Preston made a huge idiot out of himself by blurting out his feelings. He can still hardly believe that disaster ended the way it did, but he’s hardly going to question it. It means Oliver trusts him more than he does the others. Or at least, Preston hopes it does. 

When the others are leaving to get back to work, Preston lingers, close to Oliver’s side as always. Close enough that Oliver can trail his fingers over his hand when he turns. Preston catches them before Oliver can get too far away. Oliver looks at their joined hands, then up at Preston, his face fond but inquisitive. He gives Preston’s hand an automatic squeeze. Preston can’t really help the smile that brings to his face.

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asks, trying not to let his tentativeness show. 

He asked it the first time Oliver left like this as well. Oliver had smiled at him back then, that half-smile that shouldn’t be reassuring but is, and said, “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

Preston is expecting the same response now, but instead of a half-smile, he gets a half-frown. It’s not a disapproving frown, just a thoughtful one. Like he’s actually considering Preston’s offer. He almost doesn’t want to hope, but then Oliver swallows and looks down before squeezing his hand again. It’s not an affectionate squeeze so much as an involuntary one, a need for something to hold on to. Preston squeezes back, because he can’t  _ not _ . 

“Yeah,” Oliver  says. His voice sounds rough, and though he isn’t looking down anymore, he doesn’t look Preston in the eye. “If you... I’d like that. If you want to.”

“I offered,” Preston reminds him. 

Oliver smiles at that, a half-smile, but not one Preston is used to. His usual half-smiles are reassuring, or teasing, or - as he’s recently found out - breathless and happy, but this one is none of those things. It’s a half-smile that could’ve, maybe should’ve, been a real smile, but didn’t quite make it. It’s better than a fake smile, so Preston will take it as improvement.

 

He doesn’t really know what to expect, but when Oliver pushes the button that activates the elevator to Vault 111, he realizes he should have. 

Oliver is a soldier, thick-skinned and adaptable. Sometimes it’s easy to forget - despite his sometimes strange manner of speech and his easy-to-earn trust - that he’s not actually one of them. He was born in a different world, one that - by his own admission - isn’t comparable to the one he now finds himself in. He had a life in that world, a family with a woman and a child he loved, in a comfortable house he owned, with a steady job and a steady income. Now, he has none of those things. He barely has anything to remember it by, except for Codsworth and the ruins of his old home. Perhaps, Preston thinks, it sometimes feels like that other life in that other world was nothing but a dream. Perhaps the only thing that proves to him that it wasn’t, is down here. 

Oliver doesn’t say anything as he leads them down the stairs and into a large room. He’s told Preston what it was like, once, but hearing is different than seeing. The bodies in the cryo pods are still there, frozen and undecayed, as though they could be woken up with the push of a button. 

Oliver stops in front of a pod on the far end of the room, and pushes a button. The pod opens, but the woman inside is not going to wake up, no matter how many buttons get pushed. She’s the only one with her eyes open, a hole between them where the bullet pierced her skull and lodged into her brain. 

“I’m so sorry,” Preston says. It feels inadequate. Everything he could possibly say right now feels inadequate, though, so it matters little. 

Next to him, Oliver takes an unsteady breath. “Yeah,” he says on the exhale. He reaches out a hand towards the woman’s - Nora’s - face, as though to close her eyes. His fingers hover about an inch away from her forehead, and linger there for a few seconds. Then Oliver sighs and lowers his arm, leaving her untouched. 

Preston’s hands itch to reach out to him, but he’s afraid it would result in much of the same - a hand hovering for a few seconds before being dropped in defeat. It wouldn’t be enough. 

Oliver’s face is unreadable. He doesn’t take his eyes off Nora, and his mouth is a grim line. It feels wrong to see him like this, when he’s usually so expressive. It almost feels like he’s a whole different person, and yet he’s still the man that Preston loves, the man he would do anything for. His face may not betray any feelings, but Preston can feel his pain like it’s his own. But it isn’t, so he keeps quiet, and waits. He has to let Oliver do this on his own time. 

They stay like that, in silence, for a few minutes that simultaneously feel like five hours, and three seconds. It ends when Oliver exhales shakily - not quite a sigh, not quite anything else - and presses the button again. The cryo pod hisses and the lid folds down, and Oliver seems human again. Not quite himself maybe, but getting there.

“There’s-” he begins, but his voice cracks and breaks off. He scrapes his throat and tries again. “There’s bunks down the hallway, where the staff slept,” he says. “There’s clean water, too.”

“I can see why you always stay here a few days,” Preston tries. He has no idea if it’s the right thing to say. Oliver doesn’t seem to know either. 

Their dinner consists of water and cold squirrel and is eaten in complete silence. It’s not awkward. It’s barely even uncomfortable. It’s loaded, sure, but whatever the situation, it’s still  _ them _ . Saying nothing doesn’t seem right, but since neither of them can find anything to say, it’s what they do. The important thing is that they both know it. 

The bunks aren’t big enough for two grown men - one of whom might even be counted as one-and-a-half man for size - to share, so they put off going to bed for as long as possible. They haven’t slept apart even once since they’ve gotten together, and the idea of having to do so now is... unappealing, to say the least. They sit on the floor, leaning against the wall. Their hands lie in the space between them, Oliver’s fingers tracing patterns on Preston’s palm. In his other hand, he has a more than half-empty bottle of wine. It had been full at the beginning of the night. 

Preston has had less than Oliver, but considering the difference in body mass, they’re about on the same level. Not drunk, just buzzed enough to have moved past the somber-tipsy state. Just buzzed enough to start talking again, in Oliver’s case. 

“There was this salesman,” he says. “Or, well, we thought he was a salesman, so Nora just sent him away the first few times he came to the door. He did really look like a salesman, too. Had the TelSell commercial voice and everything.”

Preston has no idea what a TelSell commercial voice is. He has a feeling it isn’t really vital to his understanding of the story, so he doesn’t ask. Instead, he says, “I take it he wasn’t a salesman?”

Oliver shakes his head. His touch travels to Preston’s wrist, then back down to his fingertips. It’s quite distracting. “Vault-Tech rep,” he says. “It was me he needed to talk to, so when it was me who answered the door instead of Nora, he wasn’t gonna take no for an answer. He all but put his foot in the door.”

“What’d he want?”

“Official registration. For the Vault. Name, service record, SPECIAL scores, the works.”

“SPECIAL scores?” Preston is fairly sure he’s heard it before, but can’t for the life of him remember where, or what it is. Again, he’s fairly sure this won’t impact his understanding of the story, but it’s going to bug him if he doesn’t ask.

“A military thing,” Oliver clarifies. Funnily enough, Preston had figured that out for himself, but Oliver isn’t finished. “An evaluation of your strengths and weaknesses, so they can send you where you can put them to good use. That way they don’t send natural diplomats to do a fighter’s job.”

Preston nods to signal his understanding. 

Oliver continues. “Anyway, did the paperwork, the guy left, I assured Nora that she and Lucas were worth the paperwork, yadda yadda yadda.” He stops, and frowns. “I’m... not sure what- I think we were in Lucas’s room when it started. We saw it on the news before the bombs actually started dropping.” His fingers still on Preston’s wrist, though they’re trembling a little. “The Vault registration, it was supposed to be just for our peace of mind. I didn’t think we’d need it - ever. Let alone two hours later.” He coughs, puts the bottle to his lips again. Preston watches him tip it back, follows the movement of his throat as he swallows. “They said the cryo pods were for... I don’t know, some kind of medical stuff. We didn’t even question it. I didn’t even think to kiss her goodbye, I thought-” He cuts himself off and looks down at the bottle, but doesn’t drink.

Preston moves his hand to catch Oliver’s fingers between his own. Oliver holds on to him like a lifeline, his bitten-off nails digging into Preston’s skin. “You thought you’d see her again,” Preston finishes for him, quietly. 

Oliver replies with a noncommittal hum and a sigh. His hand tightens around Preston’s. They sit like that for a minute, before Oliver moves. He stretches his shoulders and cracks his neck. “We should sleep,” he says.

This time, it’s Preston’s turn to hum. Oliver nudges him, then scrambles to his feet, using his grip on Preston’s hand to pull him up as well. It’s impressive, considering Prestons isn’t even trying to cooperate.

They’re reluctant to let go of each other, but neither of them feels much for sleeping with their shoes and coats still on, so they have to. They strip down to their t-shirts and pants. Any less would be tempting fate, and tonight has already been hard enough. 

Preston folds his coat over a chair. When he turns around, Oliver is looking at him, his eyes strange and thoughtful. He has his cap in his hand, like he meant to put it away but got distracted. 

“You okay, babe?” Preston asks. It’s a stupid question. Of course Oliver isn’t okay; they’re about to sleep in his dead wife’s tomb. 

Oliver nods anyway. 

Preston turns to the bunk bed. He’s never slept in one before. It seems silly to want to sleep in the top bunk, but he does, anyway. 

He curls his fingers around the side of the ladder. Before he can put his foot on the first rung, Oliver’s hand lands on his arm, pulls him around and to him. Preston goes easily, an unformed question already on his tongue. He doesn’t get to ask it; Oliver removes his hand from Preston’s arm, takes his face between both hands instead, and kisses him. 

Preston’s eyes fall closed automatically, his hands fall to Oliver’s sides, holding him close, pulling him even closer still. 

As far as kisses go, it’s a fairly uneventful one; Oliver’s mouth barely moves against his, just a press of lips on lips. It’s almost chaste, and yet - there’s some kind of tension to it that almost feels like desperation, but isn’t quite it. It’s a short kiss, but Oliver doesn’t go far when he pulls back. He keeps his forehead to Preston’s, his eyes to Preston’s mouth. 

“Just in case,” he says, low. Preston knows him well enough by know to know he’s aiming for casual. He doesn’t call him out on falling short. 

Instead, he tightens his grip on Oliver’s shirt and moves closer; he tilts his chin just enough to press his mouth to Oliver’s again. 

This kiss is not chaste, not even almost. Oliver’s fingers dig into Preston’s neck, his palms hot on his jaw, and he pushes him back against the bunk bed’s ladder. Preston opens his mouth to Oliver’s tongue licking its way inside, surprisingly soft. He slips his hands under Oliver’s shirt and up his back. 

This time, it takes longer for Oliver to pull back, and Preston regrets it more when he does. 

“C’mon, cowboy, let’s go to bed,” Oliver says. His voice is a little rough, a little breathless. His chest is pressed against Preston’s. 

“You’re gonna have to let go of me for that,” Preston tells him, even as his fingers tighten on Oliver’s skin.

Oliver laughs. “Not a fan of that idea.” He moves away anyway. 

As Preston climbs into the top bunk, Oliver goes to turn off the lights. Preston looks at his back - at his white T-shirt stretched across the bulk of his shoulders; at his head, always tilted slightly to make up for his deaf ear - and thinks, not for the first time,  _ I love you _ . He thinks about saying it. He doesn’t.

Oliver flips the switch, and then it’s dark. Preston can still make out his general shape and the white of his shirt moving toward the bed. 

“Night, cowboy,” Oliver almost-whispers. Preston isn’t sure Oliver knows how to actually whisper. 

He smiles into the dark. “Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't actually finished, but for some reason I'm never satisfied with the scenes that come after this. Might add it as another chapter if I ever get around to writing it.


End file.
